


Samfarir með Vargrinn

by patrexes



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Abusing a Postgraduate Education for Fun & No Profit, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Blood and Injury, Breathplay, Canon Disabled Character, DP/DR, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Enthusiastic Consent, Intersex Character, Language Barrier, Language Kink, Lingua Latīna | Latin, M/M, Ni Dieu Ni Maître Ni Bêta, Norrœnt Mál | Old Norse, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Patch 4.4: Prelude In Violet, Rough Sex, Secret Identity Fail, Size Kink, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18886948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Lingitō,” he repeats, guiding hand firm at Alphinaud’s neck. The boy flushes pink, but obey he does.





	Samfarir með Vargrinn

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:  
> 1) there are references to 4.5 spoilers throughout.  
> 2) i'm an LGIA scholar and medievalist, not a classicist—any oddities of language should thereby be explained.  
> 3) there are scrollover (or clickover, on mobile) translations available. it loses some complexity, but it should at least still be _fun_. if you have creator styles turned off (or download the fic), there will be what translations are essential, and what appears to be empty links.  
> 4) if you know alphinaud's age you also know he's past the age of majority, because those were established literally in the same sentence. don't try me.   
> 5) the title means "going on a journey with the wolf", except that 'going on a journey' means 'fucking' and the word for 'wolf' used designates monstrousness more than species. i'm having a good time.  
> 6) garlean is latin because… garlean is latin. sharlayan is ON because a) island nation in the northern empty b) i said so.

He presses two fingers into Alphinaud’s mouth, tells him to slick them with his spit. ”You’ll look so good split open on these fingers,” he says, and brings them out of Alphinaud’s mouth. Presses them, unforgiving and not nearly wet enough, against the furl of his hole. “You were made to be fucked open for a cock. Made to take whatever you’re given.”

Alphinaud whines, his little cock at attention between his legs, pink all over like the whole thing is made of cockhead. He pinches it between two fingers—it’s easily small enough, and his hands big enough in comparison—and watches Alphinaud keen at the rough treatment he craves. Waits until he has come out the other side with shuddering breath, brought himself back to order and dignity, and in the process of finding that control gone lax everywhere else.

He angles the nail bed of his pointer finger against the pad of his middle finger, and presses in, slow, firm, inexorable. Alphinaud makes a high-pitched, gasping cry as long as his inhale, so high that his own old ears nearly miss it.

The boy is in pain, yes. Two fingers, for him, is as big as any cock that comes close to proportional, and the only prep he’s had is fucking himself open on two of his own tiny fingers, an enthralling performance while he drank the soldiers’ swill he yet names his ‘morning coffee’ to the boy’s vocal disgust. Now, it’s late afternoon, as much as one can tell, in the Burn, and that little stretch is no help now. But Alphinaud will take it, has done so before, he insists, and he has decided he can do naught but take the boy at his word.

Even a little Miqo’te cock would be asking much of Alphinaud's tiny frame, and their barbed cockheads mete a different, sharper pain than something that simply doesn’t  _fit_ , but he won’t insult the boy by calling into question his knowledge of his own body. Alphinaud either knows his limitations and speaks true as he can, or he will know them soon enough, and there is always Alphinaud’s  _Physick_  in such a case. He has always thought the cocky must needs be able to cut  _themselves_  to size, though this is a more literal case than usual.

Alphinaud’s body protests the hard use. He ignores it, and fucks his fingers into him. Feels Alphinaud quake around his fingers. The boy is still, the kind of still that has learned breathing through pain is always the better option, and the slow, intentional breaths he’s taking make his ribcage shift beneath his skin, his back arch slightly off the floor. Alphinaud’s little cock, unflagging, bobs from this full-body effort, and his toes curl, legs splayed wide and half resting on his knees to give him access, not long enough to reach the floor. The look of him is obscene already, shuddering around the intrusion of his fingers, arousal collecting in the folds below his little cock, pliant and willing.

The part of him who is yet the man who cut down nine boys little more than children with no regret in his belly, with only a  _need_  masquerading as loyalty—that part of him looks down at this shivering boy and wants to  _devour_  him.

“Puer pulchellissimus potīrier,” _this beautiful little boy just begging to be owned,_ he says, or growls, or something between the two, and he realizes too late it’s in Garlean; the boy speaks it, he knows, but from books of speeches and theory, not dirty poetry. For the best, he thinks, thoughtlessly uttered as it was. He fucks his fingers deeper into Alphinaud. Twists. Tries to part them, but the boy’s not loose enough yet.

“— _ā tuō_ , pabbi,” _by you,_ Alphinaud gasps, half-mindless, and it takes him a moment to parse the words as more than overstimulated babbling.

He stops.

“What was that,” he says.

Alphinaud’s hips hitch up into his hand, his own hand reaching between his legs. He catches the boy’s wrist and pins it beside his head. “No.” It is firm, but not, he thinks, unkind. “What was that you said?”

Alphinaud whines. “Ego potīrier ā tuō.”

_I am owned by you._

He is— _very_  hard. He pulls his fingers out, and Alphinaud whines again, a pathetic little sound. “After that,” he says, rather than address what the boy has just placed at his feet. “Unless this is the senility of old age, that was not all you said.”

He  _knows_  what the boy said. He does not speak Sharlayan, has never found a need, but ‘father’ and ‘mother’ are distinguishable across nearly every language he has heard. But he wants to hear Alphinaud  _say_  it.

Alphinaud props himself up on his elbows, hair mussed and flushed to the very tips of his long ears. The boy blinks; meets his eyes, and reads in them an unwillingness to drop this. He swallows, and in a voice thick with arousal, repeats, “Pabbi.” _Daddy._ Whatever is on his own face, the boy doubles down, a hardness in his features as he says, prim as can be in his neat book-learnt Low Eorzean, “You can’t expect me to cry ‘oh,  _Shadowhunter_ ’ in the throes of passion, can you?”

He is being mocked, and he is  _seen_. For a long moment, neither says anything, and neither looks away. Then he pushes himself up to standing, leveraging himself with his good arm first on the ground and then on his knee, for he is not as young as he once was, and something in Alphinaud’s face does not  _fall_  so much as  _fracture_.

They have both been, in the same breath, unintentionally vulnerable, and all of this should be  _funny_ , in the way of the grotesque ad absurdum, but he is only tired, and old, and oddly mournful. He takes his cock in hand. “Venī,” he orders, and Alphinaud’s eyes go wide as he looks up at him from the floor. “Ōsculī tuus ‘pabbī’ dā.”

_Come, give your kiss to ‘daddy’._

Alphinaud takes in a breath. He lets it out. It is shaking.  _He_  is shaking.

He rises.

The boy is so  _very_  small. Scrawny, underfed, as anyone might expect of one who came to maturity in a war zone, who has spent months in hiding, and all of this is, at the end of the day,  _his_  own fault, as most of Eorzea’s problems are. Alphinaud is only a shade above half the Elezen height yet full-grown, and nothing on the matter has been said, but the maths aren’t difficult. He (and his oft-mentioned twin sister) must have been in the womb at the Battle of Silvertear Skies, and ceruleum’s dangers do not end at its status as a carcinogen.

Barefoot, Alphinaud still walks as if he’s in his little wedge heels, ball-to-heel with his toes pointed, like a dancer. He comes forward, uncertain, then stops again half a fulm in front of him.

He snaps the fingers of his wasted hand. It’s not a pleasant sensation, but the bug-eyed look it gets from his pretty little boy is well worth it. Alphinaud takes the final remaining step, dips his head but an ilm, and presses his lips to the head of his cock. Gives it a kiss. Looks up at him through his lashes.

“Go on, boy.” His voice is gruff.

Alphinaud opens his mouth as wide as he can, his jaw clicking with the strain, and it’s still not enough to take him into his mouth, not properly, but to the boy’s credit, he tries. The scrape of teeth halfway up the head of his cock, catching on his foreskin, Alphinaud’s tongue playing at his slit, lapping up his pre, is not head—it can hardly even be defined as pleasurable. But still, he groans into it, more at the image, at the thought, than the feeling. “Your hand—”

Alphinaud reaches up with both, taking hold of his cock. His fingers can’t wrap all the way around it, and his slender fingers—he has taken  _rods_  down his  _pisshole_  thicker than Alphinaud’s fingers.

The boy holds his cock in place, not stroking it but only keeping it steady as he tries, and tries, and  _tries_  to get the head past his teeth, peeling back the foreskin with one of his slender fingers, sucking at the glans. He lets his own hand fall from the base of his cock and catches Alphinaud’s braid, twists it around his palm until his fingertips curl around the back of the boy’s neck, and he pulls him in, holds Alphinaud to his hip. “Lingitō eum,” _lick it,_ he says, “cōleumque.” _Cock and balls._

Alphinaud makes a plaintive sound in the back of his throat, twists away from him but has nowhere to go. “Tē fellem,” _I want to suck you,_ he whines, sounding like nothing more than a child. “Ek er með snýprekla, pabbi.”” _I’ve had scarcely any cock of late, daddy._

Alphinaud’s meaning is clear enough, even in words which sound like none he’s ever heard, and so he  _laughs_. “Angustus ōris, nōn verpa potest accipis,” _your damn mouth is too small, it can’t take a hard cock,_ he says, and it’s as if the boy takes it as some personal offense.

““Fellō, possum!” _I am perfectly capable of sucking cock!_ Alphinaud’s indignant gaze burns even as he mouths at the weeping cockhead. This is, perhaps, a sore point, but short of dislocating the boy’s jaw he’ll remain unsatisfied. “Iste  _sōpiō_ , pabbi,” _it's just so big, daddy, _he whines, desperate, and if he knows the full implications of those words is unclear. “Tē requīrō, pabbi, obsecrō—” _I need you, daddy, please—_

“Lingitō,” he repeats, guiding hand firm at Alphinaud’s neck. The boy flushes pink, but obey he does, grinding his own arousal against his knee as he licks at the underside of his cock, takes his balls into his mouth. He whimpers at every redirection, every tug at his braid, every gasped imperative, and he moans when he’s pressed first to his knees and then to his back once more.

Alphinaud reaches for him; he parts the boy’s knees with his foot, spits in his hand, and kneels over him. Reaches between his legs, scrapes his nails over the boy’s cock before moving past it, past the wet, glistening folds below it, and presses his wet fingers into the back hole. Alphinaud, ever responsive, shudders around him, twitches as a man possessed as he fucks him open on his fingers, finally manages to press in a third, near as thick inside Alphinaud as the boy’s own fist. “Quid vis?” _What do you want?_

“Mē pædīcā,” _sodomize me,_ Alphinaud gasps. Begs. There are tears in his eyes. “Mér sertu, pabbi, mér sertu, ek þurfa—” _Fuck me, daddy, fuck me, I need you to—_

“Lacerābere.” _You’ll be torn apart._

  _Fool_  boy. Impatient little thing, and  _bold_  for that imperative.

Alphinaud gives a jerking nod, rocks his hips up into the press of his fingers even though it must hurt, as tight as he is and with nothing to smooth the way but spit. He hasn’t tried to touch himself since the first reprimand, has his hands now beside his head and palm-up, as if pinned by some invisible force. “Et recte quidem. Mē noceās.” _Just so. I want you to hurt me._

 _Physick_ , he reminds himself, though he has hoped to this point Alphinaud would be too impatient to wait for his cock, the time it would take to stretch him properly.

He supposes that  _is_  yet the case. The noise he makes then is more growl than Spoken utterance, and inside of Alphinaud he makes a claw of his three fingers, drags them back and lets the nails catch on his rim. “Sī vis noceāris, nocēberis,” _if you wish to be hurt, then you will hurt,_ he says, voice steady, above Alphinaud’s cry, “et minor gladius sanguinum sapiet.” _And my sword shall whet itself on blood._

He removes his fingers from the boy’s twitching hole, so loose and  _still_  so small it cannot possibly receive him. There is blood smeared on his fingers already, if only a bit. “Olei non est,” _there’s no oil,_ he remarks, and then thinks about how he could say what remains. Rejects each and each. Garlean is a language with few compunctions. He switches back to Low Eorzean, safer somehow for the fact neither of them speak it natively. “There is—” He grimaces. If he had ever asked this of Mid, the man would have killed him. But it cannot be done without, not if Alphinaud is to know anything but pain from this act. “Do you— _are_  you—bothered by using…” His teeth snap together audibly. He gesticulates vaguely, hand nowhere near the offending orifice. “…you?”

Alphinaud looks at him blankly. “Have you forgotten how to speak?” he says mildly, if breathless.

“Your slick,” he manages, the Ala Mhigan slang coming easily to hand. “To ease the way.”

It is a few moments longer before realization dawns in the boy’s eyes, the perhaps-unfamiliar word slotting into its context, and after that Alphinaud turns his face half-away so that he’s looking up at him shyly through his white lashes. “My cunt is so wet, pabbi,” he says, and he sounds so  _young_ , looks even younger, all that native self-assuredness gone from his body language. In this moment Alphinaud is not a young man grown, not a diplomat nor a soldier, but a  _boy_  and  _his_  and nothing else. He cants up his hips with shaking thighs, presents the wet lips of his cunt to inspect. “Fuck me, pabbi, please,” and Alphinaud’s voice is breathy, desperate for him, “fuck my ass with my slick on your cock.”

He swipes his thumb between the folds, and the boy is  _soaking_. Alphinaud whines, arches back into his touch, and the tip of his thumb slips into the narrow, half-fused channel—the whine mutates, goes choked, and  _he_  groans as well. Hooking his forearm under Alphinaud’s thigh, he drags the boy closer to him, brings his hips up nearly to his lap before taking his cock in hand, wetness on his fingers. He fucks between Alphinaud’s spread thighs, rutting against the lips of his cunt, making himself slick with the evidence of the boy’s arousal.

Alphinaud grinds against him, gasping when their cocks touch, and throwing back his head violently against the floor when he grasps both in hand, spreading the boy’s slick along the shaft, and catching Alphinaud’s tiny cock between the shaft of his own and two of his fingers. Beneath him, the boy spasms, and comes, a keening whine of “ _Pabbi_ ,” on his lips.

The boy is still shaking with the force of his orgasm when he adjusts the space between them once more, spitting a final time on fingers before he rests his cockhead against Alphinaud’s hole. “Knees up,” he orders.

Alphinaud obliges, whispering  _já, pabbi_ so quietly it may not be on air, and for a moment it is all he can to do look at the boy beneath him, fragile-seeming and bird-boned, flushed and debauched, tears drying on his cheeks and his little cock still engorged, pink and wet as the lips of his cunt. He’s stilled himself at the feeling of the cock at his entrance, and he mumbles  _fac_ , ‘fuck me’, into the flesh of his arm.

He presses in, and the sound it tears from Alphinaud’s throat is more at home on the battlefield than the bedroom, a sound it hurts to  _hear_ , and the boy bites into his arm to silence himself, drawing blood with it. His knuckles are all locked, his hands curled as if he’s clawing at something, but beyond a tremor they are still where they lay above his head. “Fac,” he repeats, his voice ruined and cracking. “ _Fac_ ,” he insists.

A better man, he thinks, would ignore the boy for his own sake. He is so young, and he is inexperienced, and he is putting himself through pain because he thinks it obligatory. But he is not a better man, he is feral and hardly a man at all, and Alphinaud’s arousal still rests between his legs and his consent—more than that, his  _order_ —is on his lips. And so he fucks in perhaps two ilms more before he pulls back to the crest of his cockhead, and he can feel the boy’s inner walls  _catching_. He groans, lets himself fall to his elbow on his bad arm, and brings up Alphinaud’s ankle over his shoulder, listens to the boy’s soft keen break and crack as he does so. “Puer dēlicatūs,” _sweet little brat,_ he says, or gasps. “Cūlī tuus angustī. Tē scindam.” _Your ass is so tight. I could split you in half._

Alphinaud moans through his reflexive tears, as if this is something to  _want_ , and he curses the ambiguity between a desire and a warning, curses his own need. It is monstrous and all-consuming and it is rearing its head once more. “Mē scinde, pabbi, mér kljúf, tē requīrō—” _split me open, daddy, cleave me in twain, I need—_ the boy begs.

He can’t know what he’s begging for, can’t  _understand_ , for if he did he would never want it, nor this dog which has tricked itself into believing its own manhood. But even unknowing as Alphinaud must be, he cannot deny the boy his wants.

And so, he presses in and in and  _in_ , and when Alphinaud screams like a thing possessed, it is through his fingers. “ _Pabbi_ ,” Alphinaud cries, near-mindless, “pabbi, pabbi—”

He reaches between their bodies—despite the cries, he is only half sheathed in the boy yet and so there is enough space there for his hand—and catches Alphinaud’s little cock again with his fingers, traps it between his thumb and his first two fingers. Alphinaud sobs, his whole upper body curling up off the ground in response to the rough, dry ministrations to oversensitive flesh coupled with the little thrusts he’s making, an ilm forward and then back to the crest, again and again, spearing Alphinaud on his cock, coated now in not only the boy’s slick but his blood.

He is loosening, or tearing, or perhaps those are one and the same. He is crying, begging, and more often than not he is making no sense at all, the only recognizable word  _pabbi_. His whole body shakes, and holding the boy close does nothing to calm it. “Klám—klámhǫgg dā, pabbi,” _give me a vulgar strike,_ Alphinaud begs, head tucked into the junction of neck and shoulder, voice muffled, and the boy’s tears are cool on his neck. His blood, from the bite he made in his arm, smears across their skin, sticky as it dries. The word is one he has never heard. “Mē trāice cum gladiō minōre adque vīlificā.” _Pierce me with your little sword and make of me something vile._

“Neque vīlem potes neque vīlem potueris,” _neither are you vile nor could you ever be—even wishing it to be the case,_ he says forcefully, but he slips his hand further down Alphinaud’s back, letting his ankle slip from his shoulder. He digs his fingers into the boy’s ass as he shifts his bad arm under his neck, weight kept still on the elbow, and he pulls him close and thrusts in in one motion, holding him firm through the instinctive battle. Alphinaud grabs onto his shoulders, tries to push him away, his feet scrabbling for purchase against nothing at all, and when there is no more to take, his tears come hot and silent and he  _gags_  on it, all breath and voice fucked out of him.

“Inhālā,” _breathe,_ he reminds, and stays hilted unmoving inside Alphinaud until his kicking legs still, until he is breathing again (though his breaths come in whines). He will not ask if he is well; Alphinaud has  _made_  his choice and continues to make it, asking for more and more that he cannot take, and it is his choice, be he well or unwell.

Blood drips out of Alphinaud’s hole. Trapped between their bodies, his sensitive cock is hard and the lips of his cunt are sopping wet with slick. “ _Pabbi_ ,” he squeals, once he has found his voice again. “Pabbi, noceor, _nocet_ —” _Daddy, I’m hurting, it hurts—_ and breaks off once more.

“‘Nocet’,” he echoes, “ēn? Intrāfossam quidem mēiam,” _‘it hurts’, does it? I could piss in your hole,_ and he means both or either, “et ūdiōrem nōn fīās.” _—and it would make you no wetter._ He rolls his hips, tearing from Alphinaud’s lips a wail. “Laxum tē pædīcābō.” _I’ll fuck you loose._

Alphinaud’s breath catches. “Pabbi obsecrō, laxum mē pædīcā,” he agrees, his back arching up from the floor, “argan mē pædīcā,” and the boy has cried before in his native Sharlayan _mik sertu laussan á fingur þínn_ _,_ so what _argan_ could mean has him at a loss, but with one hand he reaches for his pack, shoves it under Alphinaud’s hips, and the new angle means that he can take the boy more easily, means that he can see the bulge of his cock under Alphinaud’s skin.

He places his hand over it, the wasted one with its limited motion, and it envelops the boy’s whole distended abdomen. He presses down.

Alphinaud shrieks. “Pabbi, pabbi, æ—!” he babbles, tears streaming down his cheeks, and buried somewhere in a mess of aimless noise is another choked _pædīcā_, so he obliges, fucks steadily into the boy, feels his own cock buried inside of him. Brings his hand up not much higher to pinch one of Alphinaud’s nipples between the pad of his forefinger and his thumbnail, but the cry it wrenches from the boy is not _nearly_ satisfying enough, not when he has heard _so much better_ already this evening, so he brings it up further yet.

He rests his weight on Alphinaud’s clavicle, curls his fingers around the boy’s shoulder, pinning him into place. “Cunnum digitus recipitō.” _This cunt will take a finger._

Alphinaud is speared on his cock, pinned down by his weight, and there is nowhere for the boy to move, not even shiver. He only gasps a _já_ on a choking inhale, and all the rest is a desperate, weak little whine, “ _Tólf_ , pabbi, obsecrō, meum cunnum recipit—” _Twelve , daddy, please, my cunt will—_

“Nōn,” _no,_ he snaps, “cunnō cum est meus, tibi tum est meus,” _this cunt is mine, for you as well are mine, _and so saying, he forces his thumb into Alphinaud’s cunt, so small already with its lips half-fused and made tighter yet by the cock already inside, pressing against every part of him, filling him up, splitting him open. It barely fits, and even soaking wet as he is it makes Alphinaud sob, slamming his head back again and again against the floor, and he claws at his own skin with shaking hands, bringing up pink welts on his pale flesh.

Should the boy give himself concussion, he’ll be unable to cast, unable to heal these wounds. He shifts his weight once more, places most of his weight on the heel of his hand, the base of his thumb, and wraps his fingers around Alphinaud’s throat. Presses down enough to hold him still. Alphinaud stares up at him, wide eyed, cheeks flushed and wet with tears. His mouth is half-open, his tongue resting on his lower lip, nearly jutting out, and the boy may not be able to take a cock down his throat, but he is struck suddenly by the image of spend streaked on his face, dripping in strands from his open mouth.

He folds his hand together, bringing together his thumb and his fingers, trapping Alphinaud’s little cock against his palm, pressing up with his thumb into the boy’s bladder, and there is no air in the boy’s lungs to give voice to the scream in his throat as he shudders through an orgasm, his cunt and ass spasming around their intrusions, and piss spills from the shared channel of the boy’s odd cunt, streaming around his thumb.

“Pabbi,” comes a hoarse whisper, “ _please_ —”

And he lasts no longer.


End file.
